


an irresistible spur to all forms of heroism

by ballantine



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: God Ships It, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-02-06 04:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12810138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: “Look at him, Marcus. Have you looked at him? Isn't he justbeggingto be used?” goes the demon in Tulsa.Coming from the vomit-speckled mouth of a ninety-year-old grandfather, it's not exactly the height of eroticism. But then, Marcus's bar is set depressingly low.





	1. Chapter 1

_With a divine force, grace increases the longings of love. And love, when it is genuine, is all-embracing, stable and lasting, an irresistible spur to all forms of heroism._

Sacerdotalis Caelibatus, Encyclical of Pope Paul VI  
On The Celibacy Of The Priest  
June 24, 1967

 

“Look at him, Marcus. Have you looked at him? Isn't he just _begging_ to be used?” goes the demon in Tulsa.

Coming from the vomit-speckled mouth of a ninety-year-old grandfather, it's not exactly the height of eroticism. But then, Marcus's bar is set depressingly low.

“Oh, shut it,” he says in tired disgust and goes back to coercing and compelling and telling the filthy thing how much God loves it.

They complete the exorcism, evade the converging emergency response team, and then go out for barbecue. After a week of pitiful microwaved food, they both agree a proper meal is in order.

The ribs are perfectly smoky, and Marcus feels the after burn of spice in the back of his throat whenever he breathes in. There's a smudge of sauce at the corner of Tomas's mouth and he is dreadfully torn between telling him about it and leaning across the rough-hewn table to lick it off.

Marcus tosses his rib down and reaches for a napkin. He fastidiously wipes his mouth, leans back, and announces, “I think I need to get laid.”

Tomas chokes on his chicken.

He helpfully pounds him on the back; after, he sort of leaves his hand there for a bit. Tomas doesn't notice, probably because early on he accepted Marcus was a tactile bastard and that he was going to be the recipient of some very hands-on tutoring.

Some days Marcus wakes up and doesn't know if this is the best or worst thing currently happening to him.

“I thought it was... necessary,” Tomas says, once he's done gasping for air. “For the procedure?”

Marcus just gives him a look and a small, but very skeptical, shake of his head.

“But in Chicago, the demon in Casey Rance – ?”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You're a priest. You took a vow and then spent your free time writing steamy overwrought prose about your lady friend's hair.”

Tomas scowls at him.

No one was ever going to write steamy overwrought prose about _his_ hair, he thinks moodily. Aloud he says, “Catholic guilt is supposed to be an expression, not a hobby, Tomas.”

“So, what are you going to do?” Tomas asks, lunging desperately for a change in subject. “I mean, are you going to just find a bar and... and pick up some nameless stranger?”

“I'll ask their name,” he says. “That just seems like basic manners.”

Tomas stops fiddling with his crumpled napkin and starts shredding it.

“Do you want me to come with?” he asks finally, once the napkin has been smote into a sad pile of wispy white. He still has barbecue sauce on his mouth.

“Best not,” Marcus says. “Why don't you head on back to the motel. And – don't wait up.” He flashes him a grin, the mad grin of a man who is about to end a decades-long dry spell.

As an afterthought, he finally lifts his hand from Tomas's back. He does his best to ignore the way the younger man's shoulders seem to curve down afterwards, like there was no longer anything to hold them up.

–

Demons tend to trot out a lot of rubbish when you've got them chained to a mattress.

They love nothing more than dipping their bile-covered claws into your thoughts and carving off little morsels. Guilt, fear, and shame provide the prime cuts, of course, but their best temptations can be rooted in any kind of emotional truth.

Case in point: Tomas – lovely, earnest (...impulsive, obstinate...) Tomas – _is_ begging to be used.

By God, mostly.

Marcus watched him in Chicago. He saw the way he wore his rising star status a little uncomfortably, how eagerly he shrugged off his prestigious new parish for the lonely life of the road. Tomas chose the collar against the wishes of his family and friends, and then chose _exorcismis et supplicationibus_ against the wishes of the Church.

He _wanted_ to be used, and Marcus hadn't met another person so well suited to being a weapon of God in a long time.

And if Marcus's thoughts drifted now and again? If he took particular notice of Tomas's dark eyes or the receptive tip of his head when they stand close, if his attention to the line of his jaw above the clerical collar started out as half-amused delight in the blasphemy of the attraction but quickly slid into something approaching a terrifying tenderness –

Well. That's what this night is for, isn't it? He'll get it out of his system before the feelings start to fester, before Tomas notices or – worst of all – before they start to impair his abilities.

Priests are barred from both marriage and intercourse. Marcus always took care to mind the former – an exorcist, after all, could not have anything to lose. You hold anything in your heart besides God and it's liable to be tarnished the first time you confront a demon.

Regarding the latter, Saint Augustine once wrote that nothing is so powerful in drawing the spirit of a man downwards as the caresses of a woman.

(This issue has understandably never been of particular concern to Marcus.)

The vow of celibacy was man's creation, nothing more than the cursed product of centuries of sexual hysteria, moral panic, and a good many crimes perpetuated against priests' wives and infant babes. Marcus intends to break this vow with all the solemnity it is due.

He's going to get a hand job at Rodeo Joe's Bucking Steer.

–

As he stands under the neon lights at the bar, chatting with a fellow from some place called Okmulgee, he has to ignore the voice in his head that says he should be approaching this moment with a little more emotional honesty.

Tulsa has several gay bars, many of them perfectly normal-looking establishments. But knowing that Tomas was going to drop him off, Marcus had chosen an outlier, the camp extravaganza with an electric purple cowboy riding a bull on its sign.

He doesn't know what response he was trying to provoke.

“Your accent is really sexy,” says Brett, his potential beau. He's wearing a large, silly cowboy hat. But he's wearing it without a hint of irony, and this has a strangely charming effect (so long as one isn't looking directly at it). “You must hear this a lot, but – I just love the sound of your voice.”

Marcus is glad one of them gets something out of it. He hears a Midlands accent and is thrown back to the sound of his father's drunkenly slurred words and the accompanying whisper of a belt being roughly dragged from its loops.

“Maybe later you'll get to hear me put it to better use,” Marcus says. He has to bite the corner of his mouth to smother a laugh. _You aren't taking this seriously._

Interest sparks in Brett's eyes. He pauses and asks, “So – want to dance?” And when Marcus can't help it and barks out a laugh, he doesn't even look offended, just grins brightly at him. (There is a reason, after all, their conversation has lasted longer than two minutes.)

“I don't dance,” he says.

“Oh, come on. You have no idea what you're missing.”

Marcus raises his eyebrows with prejudice and Brett sets his Bud down on the counter like a challenge has been issued. He adjusts that damned hat, fixes Marcus with a look, and starts to back away towards the stretch of sticky paneling that passes as a dance floor. At six foot four, he has no worries about people making way for him.

After three steps, his hips start to subtly swivel. At six steps, his shoulders have gotten into the action. His eyes are still locked on Marcus's. He waits until he's let loose another laugh and then spins away in triumph to join the fray just as the song playing over the bar kicks up into high gear.

Marcus has no desire to join in dancing, but he is considering drifting closer to get a better look. Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. Shifting his pint to the bar, he digs into his jeans and pulls out the burner phone. He flips it open.

 

_Sugar Daddy 8:58 PM  
You are supposed to check in after a case has been successfully handled. That was the agreement._

 

Marcus doesn't roll his eyes, but it takes some effort. He pulls some more from his beer, eyes the dance floor, and mulls a response. He promised himself he'd be more cooperative with Bennett after they shared that classic bonding moment of almost bleeding out on a warehouse floor and then saving the Pope and all.

 

_9:00 PM  
youre clearly keeping an eye on things. seems redundant._

_Sugar Daddy 9:05 PM  
How did Father Tomas handle the demon?_

_9:11 PM  
just peachy. better question is why youre awake at 4 in the morning_

_Sugar Daddy 9:12 PM  
I expect a more thorough report than that._

_9:20 PM  
it was an easy case. thing couldn't even levitate. what do you want?_

_Sugar Daddy 9:20 PM  
A more thorough report. That was the agreement._

 

He's your friend, Marcus reminds himself. Your friend who bailed you out of jail and sends you cases under the table of express disapproval of the Church. (Your kind-of-friend who you pulled a gun on and who orchestrated your excommunication.)

Fine. A compromise, then.

_9:22 PM  
will report tomorrow. busy now._

_Sugar Daddy 9:23 PM  
Busy how? Where are you?_

 

Marcus considers his phone for a moment, weighing whether it's worth getting his credit account frozen for a couple days to tell Bennett he's spending Church-provided funds on drinks at a gay bar.

In the end, he cuts the man some slack and pockets the phone. It's not quite _cooperative_ , but it's an improvement on actively alienating.

Besides, it'll be much funnier to let him find the expense line on the next card statement.

“You look like you just heard some good news,” Brett says, walking up and apparently thinking nothing of brushing a hand over his hip.

Marcus glances down at the hand, distracted. He's still not used to other people touching him first. “No news, just a private joke.”

“Well, the expression suits you,” Brett says. He still has a hand on his hip.

Marcus turns in place so he is between the bar and the man's arm. He tilts his head and considers him through half-lidded eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but then hastily cuts off the words – he almost forgot that most men don't find scripture quotes alluring.

“Want to step out back?” Brett asks after a very confused, but charged moment.

Marcus's only response is to grab his hand and lead him away.

–

The only thing _not_ strange about returning to a motel room that night is that Tomas is in it.

Marcus has slept many places in his life. Rectories, often. But also on floors and couches, in cars and nooks. Benches, lawns. He's not picky, so long as it's secure, warm, and relatively clean.

The first time he pulled into one of the many rest stops provided on this country's sprawling interstate system with the intention to put back his seat and sleep, Tomas hadn't understood what he was doing at first. He'd come back from the restroom, blinked at Marcus's reclined form, and flatly refused to sleep there.

His tone had been half-suspicious, like he suspected Marcus was sleeping in the truck as a way of trying to scare him off the life.

Those were the early days. Tomas has come around a bit since then, in terms of pragmatism. But still, more often than ever before, Marcus finds himself sleeping in a motel bed.

He lets the walkway light spill through the open door just enough to confirm Tomas's sleeping form in the second bed before he closes it silently. He unties his boots and pulls them off standing there near the door; it's an effort to not let the lingering tingle in his legs affect his balance, but in the end it's fine.

He doesn't bother dealing with the bathroom, just pulls off his outer shirt and shoves his jeans off. Leaves the clothes puddled in the narrow alley between the bed and window.

He's ready to crawl in between the sheets and let sleep take him, but then there's a rustle and Tomas's faint figure is rolling over and propping itself up on an elbow.

“Waiting up to ask if the deed was done?” he asks. His sarcasm still comes out quiet, an automatic deference given to the dark of the night.

Tomas remains silent for a moment. In the dim lighting Marcus can't make out his expression. Eventually he asks, “How do you feel?”

His tone doesn't betray any intent, whether he is hoping for Marcus's satisfaction or regret. And the wording is straightforward and open, much like Tomas himself. In other words, it is the perfect question.

And Marcus doesn't have an answer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has grown tenacious little plot weeds, but I am doing my best to control them and keep this story nice and neat. There is only one goal, and that is to for Marcus to realize he needs to get laid tenderly but vigorously by his beau.

“I know we've never really talked about it,” he says. “It's not that I ever thought you'd judge or disapprove, or – feel one way or another about it, really. Mysterious ways, all that.”

What is he doing? If he wanted to whinge about his problems, he could see a therapist or phone-in one of those radio talk shows that pass for entertainment in this forsaken state. He doesn't do _this._

“But I can't help but notice the timing of your absence.” He rubs his hands together slowly. “Well, what am I supposed to think.”

It's been two weeks since Tulsa. Neither Bennett nor any of his other contacts have reached out to him with news of a possible possession. Tomas put his foot down after the third day on the road, and so now they're holed up in a pay-by-the-week (or by-the-hour) motel off the I-40 in eastern Tennessee.

Tomas splits his time between doing laundry, going for long runs, and researching. To aid in this last effort, Bennett emailed him a zip file of digitized notes from Father Joubert, a well-traveled exorcist who died back in the 90s.

“Was that necessary?” Marcus asked him during their weekly call. “Next possession, he'll probably want to consult his _notes_.”

“Don't be tetchy, Marcus,” said Bennett. He sounded like he'd put him on speaker phone and was typing as they spoke. You really think the man who saved Pope Sebastian would be accorded some undivided attention.

“I'm not _tetchy_.”

“Well, territorial then. It's childish. Father Tomas has demonstrated considerable skill at exorcism. He should not suffer a lack of resources just because he has the misfortune of being taught by an itinerant.”

“Just – stop interfering.” And he slapped the phone shut before he could get another response.

So Tomas studies and runs, and Marcus draws and contemplates the abstract pattern work of water stains on the bathroom wall.

It's been two weeks since Tulsa, and he hasn't felt so much as a brush of God's presence.

Hence the current awkward one-sided conversation.

“Nothing's changed,” he says, mouth dry. He's sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and a catch in his throat. “I'm still yours.”

Usually putting his faith into words makes him feel better, but today the words hang limply in the air of the seedy motel room. All at once he feels a rush of potent loathing for the room and what it represents – softness and comfort and – and attachment to _transient_ pleasures –

The lock on the room door creaks and the next moment the door opens, letting in a creep of brisk air and the flush of a well-run Tomas.

“I have news of a possible possession,” he announces. His eagerness leaves no doubt about the degree of faith he puts into the key word _possible_. But then, he likely wants to move on from this motel and state as much as Marcus.

“Read about it in the papers, did you?” Marcus sets aside his conversation with the Almighty and reaches for the creased copy of Us Weekly they'd found stuffed into the bedside drawer alongside the Gideon's Bible. (Of the two, Marcus knew which he preferred to read.)

Tomas is undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm. “Brother Adrian – a friend from seminary school. He's emailed me about a boy in his congregation who's been acting out in school.”

It wasn't much to go on, and Marcus didn't bother keeping the thought from his face. “And how old is he?”

“Fifteen,” Tomas says cautiously, by now clearly familiar enough with Marcus to know to be wary.

“Fifteen,” Marcus repeats. “And he's rethinking his commitment to the Church? You're right, he must be possessed.”

“Adrian says Will has always been a diligent and devout student – ”

Marcus interrupts, “Even delinquents don't want to look bad in front of a religious tutor. Do you have accounts from anyone else in his life?”

A pause, and then, “Adrian says his grandmother has expressed some concern.”

Marcus tosses the magazine aside and gives him a look. Tomas's lips thin.

“She hears things in the house – look, his behavior has changed, multiple people in his life have been disturbed – ”

“So sit him down front of an after school special.” Marcus pauses. “Do they still make those? Used to hear about them all the time during exorcisms in the 90s. Parents were always so sure their kid just had a problem with grass.”

“Marcus.”

“What.”

“Why are you resisting this?” Tomas squaring off against him in offended irritation now, shirt damp at the neck and it's all so very similar to when Marcus first tracked him down to his apartment a few months ago. “Is it because I was the one to find a case?”

“Jury's out on whether it's a case,” Marcus can't help but point out.

In response, Tomas lifts his bag and drops it heavily next to where he is sitting.

“Well, we won't know until we check it out,” he says, tone that specific sort of pleasant he must have reserved for when he wanted to swear at exasperating parishioners in the confessional. Marcus rolls his eyes.

“Or is it,” and here he jerks his head up and looks over, because Tomas's voice has gone gentle – no, that's not it. Circumspect. Tomas gestures vaguely but keeps his eyes on the bag in front of him. “Is there someone local? Who you don't want to leave?”

It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Marcus to realize he's being asked if he's _met_ someone.

He makes a face before he can stop himself; what can Tomas be thinking? He's only gone out a handful of times, and the corner bar next to the Phillips 66 is hardly a setting for romance. (It is, however, the right place for wiry electricians to pin him against the mens door, drop to their knees, and proceed to go at it like they've been chaste for 40 years – oh wait.)

“If you're asking whether I've inexplicably decided to give up my life's work and retire to the honky tonks, the answer is no.”

Tomas seems to accept this, his polite empathy flooded out by relief.

For some reason, this is what makes Marcus relent. He rubs the back of his neck in half-irritated consideration. “I suppose we're not doing anything else at the moment – we can check on your friend's young troublemaker. Where to?”

Tomas smiles. “Boston.”

_Ah._

–

“So, the Church has been infiltrated, and you don't know how high up it goes,” Marcus said. “I suppose this is why I was excommunicated.”

After fleeing the parade, he'd collected the still-groggy Bennett. They were now in Bennett's hotel room, both stripped to their vests and putting emergency stitches in each other's arms. Going to the hospital was straight out; Marcus didn't want to pay American prices for something he could do himself, and Bennett didn't want anything on the record until he knew what he was dealing with.

It was currently Bennett's turn at seamstress; he paused, needle in hand, and looked up at Marcus. He said flatly, “You were excommunicated because you pointed a loaded gun in my face.”

“Always knew you were vindictive, the political ones always are – _watch it_!”

Bennett carried on with stitching as if he hadn't just tried to turn him into a pincushion. After a few minutes, he said: “Perhaps you should avoid any major metropolitan areas or any city with a substantial Catholic population. Just for a little while.”

“What, you want me to ply my trade in the Bible Belt?”

“Protestants get possessed too, Marcus.” Bennett neatly tied off the last of the stitches and stood. Even without his pressed shirt or collar, he looked like he could have stood before a Pontifical Council and given a full testimony of the month's events. “Marcus, I mean it – until I get to the bottom of whatever is happening back in the Vatican, I want you to stay out of any city with strong ties to the Church.”

“Sure, fine,” Marcus said. “Whatever.”

It didn't matter where he went, he'd thought then. Every place was the same when you were alone.

–

“Have you ever been to Boston?” Tomas asks.

Marcus is behind the wheel again. It's his preference; this way he isn't tempted to sit and watch Tomas through the long hours of the drive, fingers itching to pick up a pencil and start sketching out his perfect profile.

“Once, in the late 80s,” he says. “Can't imagine Southie's changed all that much though.”

“I meant, do you know your way around the city?” Tomas frowns down at the phone in his hand.

He notices. “No signal?”

“How do you see anything on this screen?” he demands, shaking the phone at him with near the same vehemence he'd raised a crucifix the last week. “This map – it's like some kind of cruel joke.”

“Maybe you need reading glasses,” says Marcus, who's always had perfect vision.

“Maybe you should buy a phone that was designed sometime after 2007.”

He doesn't bother going back into the whole thing about limited funds and the conspiracy in the Church; Tomas has heard it all before, but like anyone under the age of 40, having a fancy phone seems to be a higher priority than Marcus has the patience to fathom.

“I'll take the next exit with a motel, and you can use the laptop once we check in.” He glances sidelong at him. “Since you have some problem with us crashing at Brother Adrian's.”

Tomas, as much as he is capable of it – which is not very – has been shifty about the issue since it was first brought up several hundred miles ago. He now avoids Marcus's eye by pretending to study the phone and doesn't answer him.

Marcus should tell him not to bother, that if there is a possession here, any secret he's holding is liable to come spilling out anyway, and in the worst possible circumstances.

But he doesn't say anything. Clearly he's going soft.

–

Marcus and Brother Adrian, as it happens, get along famously.

“You're finally keeping company with someone with decent taste in music,” Brother Adrian says to Tomas after the first hour. He turns to Marcus. “This guy was hopeless. Ping-ponging between uptempo vihuela solos and mournful caterwauling. You'd look at his iPod and think it belonged to his grandfather.”

Or his grandmother, Marcus supplied silently. Aloud, he said, “We tried splitting station time at first. That lasted about two hours.”

Tomas rubs his temples and smiles tiredly at them from where he is sitting in the corner of the living room. He hasn't slept well the past few nights, and it's starting to take an obvious toll. “Luckily, the music doesn't matter much to me.”

“Tragic,” Adrian says, shaking his head.

When they first showed up at his door, he had taken one look at Tomas, let out a booming laugh, and dragged him resisting into a headlock. He was still wearing his soutane and didn't seem to think anything of making a scene on the street in it.

Marcus liked him immediately.

He's a peculiar sort, but the younger generation in the Church tend to be a little more light on their feet. (Tomas is the odd exception, warm but possessing a natural solemnity that makes every coaxed smile and laugh all the more pleasurable.) Adrian has the incongruous physicality and disposition of a footballer, but it's only when Marcus catches a glimpse of the framed photo on the mantle that it really clicks.

“Tomas, you've been holding out on me,” he says, waving the photo in his direction. “We could have been talking about the World Cup qualifiers this whole time.”

In the photo, a college-aged Tomas and Adrian are standing on the side of the pitch, arms thrown over each other's shoulders. Their faces and uniforms are streaked with mud, and they look like they couldn't be more thrilled about it. Marcus studies Tomas's clear, laughing expression, the dark tangle of wet hair falling over his forehead, and wonders if he had ever looked so young.

“What positions did you play?” he asks without looking away from the photo.

Adrian grins at Tomas. “I was defense. He played midfield.”

Tomas grimaces. “We were a terrible team. Didn't win a single game that year.”

" _I_ was great,” Adrian counters. “Couldn't help that our goalie was crap, though.”

“And you, Tomas?” Marcus asks, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms. “You any good?”

“I liked the running,” is all he will say.

“Humble bastard,” says Adrian. He waggles the photo before placing it back on the mantle. “This was taken right after he scored. It was only our second goal of the season.”

“Exactly,” Tomas says. “I'm not being humble, I just think it's embarrassing to admit that.” He rubs his hands restlessly over the knee of his habit trousers, and Marcus knows the period of light socializing is about to end.

Sure enough, in the next breath, Tomas straightens up and asks, “Adrian, will you tell us more about Will Melby?”

Slowly, the joy drains out of Adrian's face, leaving only faint laughter lines around his eyes as proof that it had been there at all. He abruptly looks very much his age, the carefree college athlete nowhere to be seen. He sits heavily on the armchair across from Tomas.

“There were rumors about what happened in Chicago, you know,” he tells him. “I thought – crazy stuff, what people were saying. But then I hear from Olivia that you've left the city, given up a chance to run St. Bridget's.” He abbreviates a shrug. “Started to wonder.”

“Will Melby, Adrian?” Tomas prompts gently. Marcus circles around behind his chair and rests his elbows on its back. Together, they watch Adrian intently.

“Yeah,” he sighs, and drags a hand down his face. “Will Melby.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

They are neither of them in a position to be objective about this particular case; Marcus recognizes his own psychic flinch ten seconds into Brother Adrian's explanation. But he doubts Tomas will admit aloud to his own issues, so here they are.

Will Melby, fifteen-year-old student at the Xaverian Brothers Academy, a secondary school in the North End where Adrian studies and teaches. Will lives with his grandmother –

“What of his parents?” Tomas asks.

Adrian hesitates before shaking his head apologetically. “I've never thought to pry – ”

Which leaves his family situation nicely ambiguous for exploitation by both their subconsciences. Marcus glances at Tomas's unaffected, attentive expression and decides to restrain his disgruntlement. For now.

Will is a quiet boy – studious, devout, and all sorts of other things inattentive adults like to say about a kid they clearly don't know that well.

“Have you noticed any change in his behavior?” Marcus interrupts to ask. “Anything you can point to, a clear and distinct before and after?”

“You want proof.” Adrian doesn't look offended so much as surprised.

“Yeah, well. People tend to kick up a fuss when you burst into a room and start waving a crucifix around. The Church has generally found it efficient to do a little prep work before diving in.” Marcus smiles gamely, like _red tape, you know how it is_.

Tomas, sitting in the chair below and in front of him, can't see the smile but shifts restlessly at whatever he hears in his tone. Perhaps Marcus isn't the only one restraining his disgruntlement.

Adrian tips his head and thinks a moment, his eyes flicking between them. “I only witnessed the one thing – no, witnessed is too strong. I saw the aftermath.”

They wait.

He sighs. "Will, he's been – bullied, on occasion. By the other boys."

Marcus doesn't let his expression change, but internally he sighs and scratches another tally mark under his own mental column.

“The other week, Gregory – another boy in his class – was caught vandalizing Will's algebra textbook.” Adrian shrugs. “Crude drawings – you know, typical boy stuff. He was brought up before principal, the situation was resolved.” He hesitates. “Four days ago, Gregory was found hanging from the rafters in the gymnasium.”

“Dead?” Tomas and Marcus ask sharply as one.

“No! Thankfully – no,” he says. “Though from that height, you think his neck would've - but no. Someone came upon him in time and got him down. His larynx is in rough shape, but he's expected to recover.”

“He says Will did it,” Marcus says, but to his surprise, Adrian shakes his head.

“He's in shock, won't say a word either way. But three other boys claim they saw the two of them walking towards the gymnasium only fifteen minutes previous.”

Tomas asks, “And what does Will say happened?”

“That's just it – Will claims he was in study hall the whole time.” Adrian looks troubled as he meets his friend's eyes. “But the study hall supervisor says he gave Will a bathroom pass and that he was gone for almost twenty minutes. The other brothers think Will is just lying, of course, but – I saw his face. Will was afraid. I believe he truly doesn't remember leaving.”

They lapse into quiet, letting his words and concern fade from the moment.

Eventually, Marcus says, “It's hard to say.”

Tomas rushes to reassure his friend, “The boy is clearly having problems – ”

“But we'll need to meet him in person,” he finishes, walking back around the chair to resume standing casually near the fireplace, where a far happier Tomas grins up at him from the mantle. “The Church has several methods of diagnosis, and none of them should be done over the phone. So to speak.” He tosses another smile over his shoulder.

Instead of looking put out, Adrian merely nods his acceptance. After a second, his expression turns thoughtful and he says to Tomas, “Speaking of – what got you into this specialization? I'm surprised Rome let their star priest of the midwest off the leash.”

Tomas doesn't tense or look over to Marcus. He's gotten a lot better about that.

“You were the one who contacted me, Adrian,” he says quietly. “You've never been one to look twice at a reasonable explanation before.”

The brother smiles, a rueful slice of perfectly white teeth. “I suppose we've both changed a lot since school.”

And, for some reason, this is when Tomas chooses to glance at Marcus.

–

“Are you sure you won't stay?” Adrian asks as they head for the door later that night. “I have the guest room – and Tomas, you can take mine. I don't mind sleeping on the coach. Not like I haven't done it before.”

They arrive at the front door and together turn to face that handsome friendly face. Marcus, who received text confirmation earlier in the evening that Bennett has definitely noticed certain recent credit charges, is prepared to spare the expense and crash at the flat.

Tomas has other ideas and says apologetically, “We've already paid for the room.”

“Eh, sunk cost,” says Marcus, not moving even as Tomas directs a look at him. “But the gas to drive across the city – ?”

Tomas, evenly: “Our luggage is already there.”

Marcus, reasonably: “We can pick it up on our way out of town.”

“I'm not going to _wear_ – look, Adrian.” Tomas stops and turns back to the open door.

Adrian is watching them with his eyebrows faintly raised. “Tomas, are you two – ”

“Sure, yes,” says Tomas swiftly. “Adrian, I thank you for the offer, but we're going to go back to the hotel.”

To the man's credit, his expression smoothes out quickly enough, with the exception of a lingering, curious glance at Marcus. He says belatedly, “Great, no problem. So We'll see you at the school tomorrow?”

Marcus trusts Tomas to deal with the lingering social niceties and stalks off to rescue the truck from its parking meter; after all, if they got a ticket, Tomas would likely insist they actually pay it.

–

The drive back to the hotel is quiet. Both of them are snappish and tired and direly in need of a wash-up, if he's being perfectly honest. So when they get into the room and Marcus starts puttering about in his bag for a toothbrush, only to be asked if he's going back out, he's a bit nonplussed.

He stops and looks over, brow wrinkled. After a moment, he hazards, “Do you want me to go out?”

Tomas shakes his head, mouth inverted in a studiously casual frown. He doesn't look at Marcus. “No, just wondering.” He fiddles uselessly with his open duffle and shrugs badly. “Thought I'd check.”

“Check, right,” Marcus says, eyes narrowing. “You've been checking an awful lot recently. Tomas, I think you missed your true calling as a mother hen.”

Tomas looks up at that, clearly irritated, but whatever he sees on Marcus's face has him instead reaching for his nightclothes and heading straight for the bathroom.

He calls after him, “My dick and I thank you for your concern, Tomas. It's refreshing, traveling with such a solicitous, _nonjudgmental_ fellow such as yourself. The Church really did a good job with your generation – ”

The bathroom door slams shut. The framed poster of Boston harbor on the adjoining wall rattles and threatens to fall.

At some point in the early grey hours of the morning, Marcus wakes up to use the bathroom and on return is confronted with a vision sprawled out on the other bed. Sheet tossed down and shirt rucked up, hair tousled, mouth unbearably soft.

He has difficulty falling back asleep after that; indeed, he has slept easier mere feet from a howling demon possession.

For most of his life, his worship was habitual, but instinctive – less an imperative than an act of straightforward devotion. He is not used to curtailing this impulse. He's no good at it.

He tries, for a moment, to wish he'd gone out after all, but the feeling won't catch. Whatever is rising up within him cannot be quenched by a quick tumble in the back of a bar, and the knowledge of this truth feels heavy in the air around him, like pressure of an oncoming storm.

–

In the reassuringly cold light of day, Tomas possesses many gifts – a heart open to God and a thick head of hair being chief among them – but a few months into whatever this is that Marcus is doing with him, and a few gaps in his skillset are readily apparent. What Marcus doesn't understand is why he resists tutelage.

“You need to elicit an emotional reaction, Tomas,” Marcus says. “Humiliation, old traumas or grudges – exploit them. He should be damn near tears if you've done it right.”

Tomas smiles tightly at the visibly disturbed barista and takes the two coffees. He turns back to Marcus and hands him one of the cups, dark eyes flashing.

“You did that on purpose,” he accuses as they cross the room in search of an open table.

Okay, yeah, he did. But in his defense: it was pretty funny.

“Consider it a demonstration of the kind of tactics you might need to use,” he offers as they find a table. Tomas just shakes his head and takes a seat.

The thing is – Marcus grew up in a group home for boys. And say what you will about the bullying, beatings, and casual cruelty that abounded in that wretched place, but it definitely gave him a leg up when it came to ferreting out a possession. Knowing just where to press to make a person fold, to draw a demon lunging forward – it's the dirty underside of the job. Ugly, but necessary (Marcus muses that this might make a good epitaph, and his mouth quirks in dark amusement).

Tomas, meanwhile, was raised by a loving grandmother, and it shows. He lacks that bloodhound extinct to push past discomfort and danger in pursuit of the particularly rotten stench of the demonic.

But speaking of boys homes and grandmothers –

“We need to discuss his parents.”

Tomas looks faintly surprised but nods in ready agreement. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“We'll need to get the story out of the grandmother. It might not be contributing a factor to the boy's distress – ”

Tomas stops him. “Marcus. They're his parents – of course it's a factor. ”

“Right.” He pauses.

They both raise their coffee and take a long drink. When they lower the cups again, Tomas is considering the table.

“I'm sorry,” he says abruptly. “For last night. I told myself long ago that I wouldn't push – ”

“You talk to yourself about me?” Marcus asks with interest.

“Nearly as often as I talk to God,” Tomas says, emphatic. “Because you're _infuriating_.”

“I thought you were apologizing?”

And as Tomas looks away with an expression that plainly expressed blasphemies and curses its owner could not utter aloud, Marcus sips more coffee and thinks, apropos of absolutely nothing at all, _let love be without dissimulation. Abhor that which is evil; cleave to that which is good._

 _And Lord,_ he thinks helplessly _, Tomas is too good._


	4. Chapter 4

Tomas is slumped in the passenger seat, nearly stupefied by the morning rush hour traffic. His collar sits loose around his neck, not yet fastened for the day; in the corner of his mind that he won't acknowledge, Marcus wonders if Tomas will ask him to help with it. He often does on mornings like this, with a new case looming over them and him only on his second cup of coffee.

_WRKZ 94.1, Boston's number one variety station getting you where you need to go. I'm Mark Russells – and I'm Sarah Walsh – and we're barely hanging in there!_

Marcus glances at the radio, like he might find some explanation on the old stereo panel. When this predictably fails to work, he transfers the look to Tomas, who immediately lowers his coffee and says, resigned:

“I don't know what's going on out there.”

He turns back to the road, which probably requires his full attention.

_Out there._

Tomas could mean outside the truck, out in the city at large, but to Marcus's treacherous ears the words sink deeper than that. Like maybe he feels some small slice of how Marcus does these claustrophobic days; that the world is crafted in two parts, one populated by the two of them and the other by everyone else. (It's the first time since he last stood in God's light that he hasn't felt like he was on the wrong side of a window, looking in at the warmth of others.)

Bad-tempered drivers stream past the truck like it's a stubborn boulder in a brook. The early morning sun winks at them from gaps in the skyline. What would this drive across the city be like, he wonders, if they were just normal people? If Tomas was a work friend and not maybe-chosen by God; if Marcus was a – a – ?

The thought stalls out. Even his idle daydreams can't summon something better than this.

Well, fair enough. He's never before seen any point in envisioning a life untouched by the Church – who knows where he would've ended up if he hadn't been plucked up. A lot of people would probably be dead, their souls lost. He certainly would never have met Tomas, and then there'd be no coffee in the truck, no warm presence beside him, no nagging sensation he's exactly where God wants him to be, never mind his omnipresent silence –

“Do you miss this?” he asks. At Tomas's blank look, he clarifies, “Going to work in the mornings. The routine of it.”

If possible, Tomas's expression goes even blanker.

“You're asking if I miss my commute. Why? No one in their right mind misses riding the L.” He half turns on the bench seat, waking up and getting into the topic, like if he accomplishes nothing else, he'll get Marcus to understand the full import of his words. “I once fell asleep against the window and woke up to find my seatmate's toddler had put gum in my hair.” He shakes his head, mystified after all this time. “Who thinks a toddler is old enough to chew gum?”

Marcus checks on him. “Was it the hair that bothered you or that they gave their kid gum?”

“If they came into my booth?” Tomas shrugs, grim. “I'd accept confession to both.”

Point to commuting with Marcus, then. _He_ 'd never put gum in Tomas's hair.

“Why are you smirking?” asks Tomas, suspicious.

“Mm? Oh,” Marcus nods at the radio, which is now playing something called Daft Punk in the spirit of, as Mark Russell and Sarah Walsh put it, _calling back to happier times_. “Like the tune.”

They drive on.

What had been a fifteen minute trip late the night before takes almost forty minutes. By the time they find street parking close to the Xaverian Brothers Academy, Marcus is well shot of romanticizing commutes and city traffic and ready to retire to the countryside.

Tomas gets out of the truck, stretching and plainly wishing for another cup of coffee. He reaches up but only brushes a hand against his collar before turning his back on Marcus and asking, “Would you – ?”

The corner of his mind that he won't acknowledge is smug like they just caught hint of a demon. Marcus slams his door and mutters a belated, “Yeah.”

He steps forward.

One of these days, Marcus should crack a joke about not being a valet, but truth is, he has a disquieting fixation on these moments. There's a terrible thrill in helping another dress for battle.

He reaches up and runs well-practiced hands along the collar's edges, smoothing and stretching the stiff fabric. The back of his thumbs press against Tomas's throat where his pulse beats, warm and strong, and his thumbnail scrapes lightly along the stubble of the beard he's started growing out. Tomas's breath hitches and he withdraws his hands before they can get into more trouble.

Tomas seems to avoid his eyes as he turns around, which is fine because Marcus is looking ahead, down the street at the school.

“I believe this is your seventh case,” he says. “A holy number, if you believe that sort of thing.”

Tomas asks, “Do you?”

Marcus shrugs; no, not really.

–

Brother Adrian is waiting at the top of the steps of the front entrance to the school. The look of poorly-concealed anxiety he greets them with doesn't sit well on his handsome face. Marcus feels more than sees Tomas stiffen in alarm.

“His grandmother came in,” he says without preamble, reaching to open the door and usher them inside. His hand is trembling faintly, which he hides by tucking it into the draping sleeve of his soutane.

Inside, their steps echo down the empty corridor. At this hour, the students are probably assembled for mass, Marcus thinks.

“Is this a problem?” Tomas asks him. “I thought she gave permission to go ahead.”

Adrian shakes his head, looking pained. “She is insistent that she talks to you before you see Will. Mrs. Gerver's a generous supporter,” and Marcus thinks _there it is_ , “and she doesn't understand why I've called in two outsiders rather than bring the situation up directly with my superiors.”

“You should do it,” Marcus says to Tomas.

(Of the two of them, Tomas is the one equipped with both a collar and grandmother-pleasing credentials. Marcus's image of a grandmother was formed chiefly from novels and television, and the resulting saccharine image might as well be a fairy tale. His own grandmothers were a drunk and a young Spanish Flu victim, respectively.)

But Tomas doesn't argue, and when they reach Adrian's office, he exchanges a long look with Marcus before entering alone. Marcus turns to Adrian with slightly raised eyebrows and the brother finally says, “Best if I don't go in. That woman terrifies me.”

“I take it your path was appealing for its lessened social requirements?” he asks, and receives first a slightly consternated look, followed by a short laugh.

“I was always more for the studying than the community,” Adrian admits, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms. “It's not that I don't care, of course – but not everyone can be Tomas.” He smiles, rueful. “You've seen him in action, I'm sure. Always about that duty.”

It's a strange thing to say, from one member of the Church to another, even if that other is technically former. Marcus says, “You're an odd one, aren't you, Brother Adrian. You disapprove of his choice?”

The man shifts against the wall, clearly uncomfortable by the direct language. “Not at all. I'm like all the rest of his friends and family.” He spreads his hands, like it's all so simple. “I want him to be happy.”

“Do you think he's unhappy?”

Adrian dismisses that line of questioning with a wave. “I think it's never been as a high a priority as it should be.”

Marcus thinks again of the old photo of the two of them. Those bright, beautiful memories of Loyola. “You're talking about Jessica.”

Surprise momentarily wipes Adrian's face clean. “He told you about Jessica?”

“Well.” Marcus flashes briefly back to lounging back on Tomas's couch, reading the correspondence with all the relish of a housewife armed with a Harlequin. “Yeah.”

“Forgive me if I sound rude – but Tomas has always kept some things pretty close to the vest. Why would he discuss his late love life with another priest?”

“Ex-priest,” Marcus corrects reflexively. He shrugs and glances away. “And demons love the taste of old regrets, unfinished business. It came up.”

Adrian searches his face. “Anything else come up?”

A curious tone, that. Marcus eyes him and asks, “Should something have?”

“I mean only,” Adrian licks his lips and glances at the closed door of his office. “Is there anything – unresolved – that you two should address before you help Will?”

Marcus blinks. _You two_ – ?

The office door swings open, revealing a tall older woman and a very neutral-looking Tomas. The grandmother's face is set in lines that suggest a little of the stern nature that so intimidates Adrian, but at the moment it's transformed by a smile.

“Mrs. Gerver,” Adrian says, straightening immediately up from the wall. “I hope your concerns have been alleviated?”

The smile turns flinty as it lights upon the brother. “Brother Adrian, I still would have preferred this matter be handled with a little more discretion and professional protocol – however, Father Tomas here has explained the situation.”

Her smile melts into sincerity as she looks back down at Tomas, who is standing with his hands clasped respectfully before him. With the light from the office window streaming in and framing his form from behind, he could be Father April in a Catholic Church charity calendar.

“So we can proceed, then?” Marcus asks, straight to the point. He meets her double-take assessment without flinching; _he_ 's not some idle Church academic, and he's spent a lifetime staring down the spawn of Hell, besides.

Mrs. Gerver deliberately looks him up and down, with the sort of brash lack of subtlety only older women can get away with. Whatever she sees in his beaten boots and jacket has her previous calm slipping. “And – who are you?”

The man who's going to save your grandson. “I'm – ”

“My assistant,” Tomas says quickly. For a moment, affronted surprise is the only thing that prevents Marcus from speaking. In the space of that silence, Tomas continues, willfully blind to the murderous look Marcus is sending his way, “It's an experimental program that Church is trying, pairing priests with reformed...” and he stalls out there, an awkward moment that Marcus isn't sure he should be thankful for.

“I see,” says Mrs. Gerver, and Marcus somehow doubts she does. “Well, I'm sure he's in good hands with you, Father Tomas.”

 _If only_ , Marcus thinks. His mouth twists and he looks away, deciding to let this ridiculous moment pass.

“So,” Adrian says brightly after a long pause, “I'll just call Will out of class, shall I?”

–

Marcus has lounged, slept, eaten and drank within five feet of demons. He started doing this because, after so many years, even possessions can feel routine. After a while, he adopted it as a deliberate mode of behavior. There are two main benefits: the first is to set family and friends of the possessed at ease. You can't feel confident in the success of a surgery if the surgeon is pacing around looking nervous and upset, after all. The second benefit is that it's always annoyed Bennett.

When Marcus meets Will Melby in person and feels a frisson of unease and wariness, his first instinct is not to assume possession.

Will is an angry kid – it's plain from the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes see through everyone in the room, like they're staring at the thoughts in his own head.

If his instincts are right, this anger is something Marcus recognizes but is helpless to do anything about.

Anger was once his whole life. It runs deep, can be quiet and abiding and go misdiagnosed as shyness or some other nonsense. It's a darkness that's tinged with defeat, that doesn't wake up and realize it can do something to change one's state until it's too late to take any other form but violence. In many ways, it's not wholly unlike possession.

“How are you feeling, Will?” Tomas's tone is devastatingly kind, and Marcus internally winces at the reception its likely to get. 

The boy, sitting in a chair designed for heart-to-hearts, is clearly suspicious of the situation. He keeps his arms tucked in close to his body, like the armrests will infect him with some debilitating weakness.

“Fine,” is what Will Melby determinedly tells them.

Marcus leans forward and catches his eye. Once he's got it, he deliberately smirks. “A classmate was recently found hanging from the ceiling and you're _fine_?”

Will pales and shifts in his seat. His grandmother inhales sharply but is prevented from speaking by a well-timed sympathetic gesture from Tomas.

“Look,” says Will, prevaricating, “Greg was a dick, everyone knows that.”

“So he deserved what he got,” Marcus supplies.

Will shakes his head, more at his grandmother than them. He says to her, “That's not what I said.”

In an unspoken moment of understanding, Tomas takes up the relay. “Will, we're just concerned about what you had to see that day. Do you think you can talk about it?”

In another situation, Marcus would be resisting this gentle treatment. But he has a gut feeling that this whole case is a bust, and anyway –

Marcus's phone vibrates in his pocket. He digs it out and checks the caller. His fingers are accepting the call before his mind can think better of it.

“Have you been thrown into one too many walls?” is Bennett's greeting.

Marcus is hardly one to stand on ceremony when it comes to the two of them, but something in his tone immediately brings him up short. Tomas notices and gives him a curious look. Brother Adrian follows his gaze.

“Dunno,” Marcus says, tone casual as he slips out of the hall and out of the others' hearing. He glances up and down the hall, but it's between periods and, minus the spotty teenager clearly dawdling with his hall pass at the far end, empty. “The last place that was supposed mind my mental status turned out to be run by demons. Been a bit leery of the whole profession since then, to tell you the truth.”

Bennett demands, “Why are you in Boston?”

Marcus's lips thin. “Possible case.”

“Can you imagine my surprise, Marcus,” says Bennett, “when I'm called away from my desk – and, might I add, the highly delicate process of building a case against Cardinal Guillot – and am told that Marcus Keane was spotted in one of the largest archdioceses in all of North America? Can you imagine my surprise?”

His eyes dart to the closed door. “How?”

“An auxiliary bishop received a tip. Because you're apparently hanging around with people who have the ear of _auxiliary bishops_.”

Marcus doesn't bother wasting time arguing. He bites out, “I'll call when we're out,” and ends the call.

The door crashes against the wall when he reenters the room, and that's the only warning Brother Adrian gets before Marcus has him against the wall.

“Are you crazy – ”

“Marcus!”

Both voices die prematurely as their owners notice the knife against Adrian's neck. But in the absence afforded by their silence, there is Will Melby, speaking with the bluntness of youth:

“Holy _shit_.”


End file.
